Timeline: Many years pre-Epic. Lastadron is roughly fourteen.
With a whistling hiss-thunk, the twelfth and final arrow embedded itself deeply in the second circle of the target. Crudely painted with a bit of spare whitewash, the thing was set up in the low boughs of a tree just over a hundred feet away, the scattered arrayment of the dozen arrows upon it clearly demonstrating that even such a short range lay beyond him.
Lastadron wondered, briefly, if his father would really notice if he chose to run off after Canchon and Tasser rather than collect the arrows and try again.
Midsummer was by far the best time of year on the slopes of Min Rimmon, when the crops had little need of tending save by the rain and sun, and even the highest foothill sprouted flowers of brilliant colors. Children of all ages swam in the lower reaches of the Mering Stream, played in the forests, and endured the determination of parents to bestow their favored crafts upon them.
Gritting his teeth and squashing disappointment, he trudged at last toward the target-tree.
“Hard at work, I see!” A cheerful voice declared from behind, and Lastadron was suddenly very glad for his choice.
Elanion, Lastadron’s father, was a stout man of average height and girth, muscled from both fieldwork and hunting. Coming up the path from their small homestead, his brilliant grin in the sunshine eased even the frustration of a hapless teenager. Somewhat.
“It’s a distinct possibility that I’ve improved since last month,” Lastadron told him in the interest of being ‘positive,’ “Evidence is inconclusive.”
“You are improving, Las, whether or not the target shows it, so don’t fear on that point. So long’s you practice, your muscles will get more used to the motion, and you get accustomed to the sighting picture and can aim better. It’s just the— that bad, huh?” In distinct disparagement of his son’s dark mood, Elanion burst into a deep laugh when he noticed Lastadron mouthing along to the very familiar ‘Lecture of Encouragement.’
In lieu of answering, Lastadron turned his back on his father to remove the arrows from the target. He didn’t quite yank hard enough to warp the shafts, not wishing to be drafted into making more, but it was a near thing. He marched back to the hundred-foot line with a quiver full of arrows already blunted from hours of practice.
“Alright, fine, there’s no need to get so huffy. You know all you had to do was ask.” His father’s dramatic sigh, which his mother swore he’d inherited, heralded at last the expected outcome. Lastadron perked up considerably, scowl disappearing.
“Just put the target away first, we’ll be needing it. And tell your mother where you’re going and when you’ll be back, because I’m leaving now for that hunt on the further slopes.”
“Mama already knows! She told me not to guilt you into letting me go until noon at the earliest.” Elanion laughed out loud, “Of course she did. Well then, tell her you’re both too smart for your own good.”
“Yessir!” Lastadron saluted smartly and darted to the target with considerably refreshed exuberance. He wondered if Canchon had managed to beat Lastadron’s record climbing up the rock-face yet, or if Maerhan’s parents had let him come as well.
“And be careful!” Elanion’s departing shout barely merited a distracted wave, and his laughter lingered behind him.
